


Fools Indeed

by masquerader



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Mild Blood, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 15:15:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15888633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masquerader/pseuds/masquerader
Summary: You follow no one. Not the king, not the dragons, not the daedra, and certainly not the jester who keeps trying to kill you.Gender-neutral pronouns and ambiguous main character. May include explicit content in further chapters.





	1. First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> because i love starting new projects instead of finishing old ones

It really is odd, when you think about it. Not many people dabble in your profession, or know about it, and even if they do it’s easier not to think about it. Haunting every dark corner of Tamriel is an assassin who carries the will of any hateful spirit with gold to spend. The job pays nicely, gives you something to do, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel welcome in the little community. A diverse bunch, they are. Not one soul alike. But there is one thing that binds this unconventional group together. A lifelong, passionate, addictive, love for murder.

 

When you showed up on their doorstep after one dizzying, fateful night, it was like seeing a family reunion. They accepted you with open arms; they saw you as one of their own, and treated you like an old friend. After getting to know each member of the Brotherhood, you came to the conclusion that each person was, in a way, an artist. It was as if their goal was to kill, mangle, obliterate their misfortunate targets in the most creative yet specialized way possible. And they told stories of their victories over heartfelt gatherings by the fire, like any family would. But make no mistake with their charm, the Dark Brotherhood was a volatile bunch. The destructive power of an explosion, but more similar to a putrid venom that creeps on a Chaurus’s unsuspecting prey, slowly burning, and before you know it the creature is dead.

 

Admittedly, you’re beginning to understand what makes the life of an assassin so enticing. The muffled screams. The silky feel of a blade gliding across warm, alive flesh. The almost instant dead-weight that falls into your arms, ripe for looting, and the narrow glimpse shared between the victim and the killer mere seconds before death. And when the contract is completed you get to do it all over again.

 

But still, it’s just another day at the office.

 

Night has fallen, and you’re on the road once more to Sanctuary. It is customary for all Brotherhood members to live there, but you’ve made a home elsewhere. After all, who knows what might happen to a housing of criminals? It could be ransacked. Or even burned to the ground. Ha, but that’s rather unlikely. You still can’t take the chance though. Don’t wanna risk all your stuff.

 

Reaching the outskirts of Falkreath, dipping under a hanging rock formation, and passing a beautiful yet murky pond, you approach the sinister Black Door. It opens, lowly creaking, and you’re greeted with a warm orange light. Even  _ it  _ welcomes you. 

 

Coming through the hallway and into the spacious cavern adorned with flags, fungus, and many  _ many _ tools of disposal, you once again see the family gathered in front of the waterfall. Yet one unfamiliar figure stands out from the rest. A jester with the brightest smile, accompanied by a hulking tomb. You first think him to be lost, but your thoughts are interrupted by his squeaky laughter. It sounds worn, yet reinforced with the power exerted. It sounds out of place. The Brotherhood is a place to enjoy oneself, yes, but you always pictured it as a peaceful coexistence. And  _ certainly _ not a place for this happy-go-lucky freak show.

 

You report to your superior, the leader Astrid, affectionately and respectfully referred to as the mistress. And if she was available to be a mistress, many would have literally killed for the opportunity, perhaps yourself included. But her husband isn’t amused by that. 

 

She dismisses you, and your curiosity pushes you towards the odd man who somehow got past the selective door. What brought him here? Why does Astrid allow him to stay? And what could be inside the coffin, reeking with decay, that he handles so delicately?

 

You are cautious, silent, approaching this man. Yet he twists his neck to face you so suddenly it’s as if your footsteps were uproarious. His smile lifts, “Another servant under the Dread Lord! Yes, I was told there would be one more! Pleasure to meet you, my bloodstained brethren.” It catches you off guard, yet visibly you are unfazed. “Well met,” you reply, “who are you?” 

 

He bounces, carefree. “I am Cicero! Cicero is the Keeper of sweet Mother here,” he says as he gestures to the coffin. “I’ve come seeking refuge for Mother’s poor battered casket, and meet my fellow killers. Here to make friends, to tie up loose ends.”

 

You’re fascinated by his tone. Apparently he knows well what duties are performed here, ones that would have you burned at the stake for immoral, wicked crimes against all mortality, yet he speaks in a sing-song voice. Does he not care? Ignores it? Or is it the very thing that makes him laugh? In any case, he’s far more interesting than anything else you’ve seen at the Brotherhood so far. You’re desperate to learn more.

 

“Cicero, what does a keeper do?”

 

“The Keeper protects and tends to the Night Mothers remains! It keeps her spirit connected to Cicero’s world. Very important job, now if I may go back to doing that…” He returns his attention to the coffin. You shift in front of him.

 

“Who is the Night Mother?”

 

He looks at you and his smile grows. It looks like it hurts.

 

“You don’t know the Night Mother…? Oh! A joke! A funny joke!  _ Everyone _ knows our Unholy Matron, who bestows us so kindly with the contracts she receives from the Black Sacraments!”

You open your mouth to ask another question, but he cuts you off, “Now, no time for talking! Cicero must make sure Mother is okay!”

 

You tilt your head slightly. “Don’t you get tired of taking care of a corpse?”

 

“Not at all,” he laughs, “it would be anyone’s honor to serve our Mother until death, when Cicero can join her! Surely Astrid’s family would agree?”

 

You lean back on your heels, absentmindedly running your eyes over the coffin, then to Cicero, then back to the coffin, and mumble, “Maybe them. I don’t think I would.”

 

His hands drop to his sides. “You’re saying… you do not pledge your loyalty to the Night Mother?”

 

“Not really, no,“ you say, “I don't follow anyone.“

 

The look on his face changes like a butterfly’s life cycle. Cheerful, then still, then bursting with rage as if your knife was plunged in his abdomen. “Listen to me, heathen,” his voice is suddenly low and rumbling, “our Mother has blessed us with the ability to kill swiftly and often. You are in her eternal debt.”

 

He looks around the room to see if anyone has taken notice. No one has, so he steps closer.

 

“And Sithis judges us all when we pass. You’d do well to remember that when next you decide to question his authority,” he spits.

 

Looking at this man in a jester costume, it’s ironic how afraid he’s making you, even though that’s still a miniscule amount. His hand hovers, twitches, over a sheathed black dagger. Your eyes snap back to his face as he growls, “What have you to say for yourself, rat? Will you repent for your treachery towards Sithis and the Night Mother?”

 

Your wonder grows ever so slightly more. And instead of humoring him, you decide to illicit an even greater response.

 

You lean close and whisper, “I don’t give a damn about this maggot-infested pile of bones.”

 

Almost before you finish your sentence, a blade hurdles towards your throat in a blind frenzy, which you catch by the wrist, barely stopping it. Frothing at the mouth, Cicero glares into your eyes, struggling to break free from your grasp, and suddenly he shouts, “You call yourself a member of the Family?! You’d do better service screaming in the Void!”

 

“Cicero! Stop this at once!” Astrid draws her own blade, and like a queen bee, her workers follow, surrounding the conflict, prepared to fight. “Unless you want to face the rest of the Brotherhood, I suggest you put that away very slowly,” she snarls. Cicero studies the assassins around him. He side-eyes the coffin, home to his beloved Mother, then focuses on your neck, inches away, flowing blood and air and life, tempting him. He draws back and holsters his dagger. “My apologies, dear Astrid,” he chimes, “things got just a little out of hand. Won’t happen again!” Astrid motions for the rest of the Brotherhood to stand down.

“Right. Because if it does, both of you are out of the Sanctuary.”

Cicero nods. “You’d have to find another place to keep your pet rock,” you tease in the most serious tone you can fake. Astrid turns to you.

“The Night Mother belongs here. I meant Cicero and  _ you _ .”

 

As you recoil in disbelief, the crowd retreats to their original places, seeing that violence is no longer necessary. You, Astrid, and Cicero stay put. “You wouldn't kick me out,” you argue, “Since I joined, the Brotherhood’s reputation has improved immensely.”

 

“You still have a lot to prove,” Astrid counters, “and our family doesn't need a troublemaker. Understand?” Cicero makes a mocking face at you that only makes you angrier, but you bite your tongue. Begrudgingly, you nod. It's best not to disagree with the mistress. 

 

Cicero takes slow strides approaching you, making you tense. His voice is barely above a whisper. “Watch your back for another attack, lest Cicero watch it for you.” And with that, he leaves for his room.

 

Astrid rubs the bridge of her nose and sighs, “What did you do?”

 

To your own surprise and hers, you chuckle. “I just said what was on my mind. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

 

“In this line of work, everything is wrong with that.” She shakes her head. “Keep your thoughts to yourself, or one day we’ll be summoned to target you.”

 

She ghosts off, and soon you're left alone with your thoughts. 

 

_ I hope that happens. If they don't kill me, I’ll die from boredom.  _


	2. A Gift

She has told you to hide in the coffin. Yes, right after you voiced your complete hate for the insect-magnet, your mistress says to stuff yourself in a cramped, dark, unholy tomb over a nagging suspicion. No evidence, no prompt. It’s unnecessary, you tell her.

 

“Unnecessary? No evidence? Were you not in your right mind when he brazenly attacked you mere seconds after arrival?” Astrid pushed, obviously losing her composure. You’ve never seen her like this before. She’s paranoid. She’s worried about her family, and you can’t blame her. But a task like this? You’d rather the jester kill you here and now!

 

Her shoulders lower, trying to unravel the stress building. “There’s no need to go to such extremes,” she says. “After all, you’re only eavesdropping. Return to me with as much information as possible: who he’s talking to, what they’re planning, and when we can expect to see it. Now go, quickly!” She glares at you with urgency, which, coming from your boss, is rather demanding, and you exit stumbling.

 

Well. There it is. In front of a colorful stained glass is the Night Mother. The exterior, despite its wear, is actually quite nice to look at. But you know what it holds inside. A mummy, a dead woman, and an apparent link to the Void and the Mother herself. You kneel and get to work on the small lock, and the smell is unbearable. You wonder how Cicero can stand it. Opening the casket, the doors are silent - not a single creak - as they loom overhead and curved inwards like a human’s embrace, or more like a death trap. And that’s exactly what you’re stepping into. A death trap.

 

The coffin is surprisingly spacious. Thankfully, you can squeeze against the door just enough so you’re not touching the body, but it’s still uncomfortably close. Is this what irony is? You asked for something new, something exciting and on edge, and it looks like you got it. Goddammit. You think there’s a bug in your hair.

 

Shuffling. You hear no footsteps, but no more than a foot away on the other side of the thick stone is the voice you’ve been waiting for. “Are we alone?” Sorry, fool, but no.

 

He giggles to himself and coos to the Night Mother. Now this is a man who’s found his purpose. So dedicated, so content with his place in the world; you’re a bit jealous. Or at least you would be if he wasn’t also completely insane.

 

He's yelling now. At you. Well, to the Night Mother, but with the way he's leaning towards the door, every word resounds in the chamber only to clang in your ear. The insulation in the casket is pretty weak; you're lucky the fool won't hear you breathing. A hand gently rubs the casket, by the sound of it. He's extremely close. You hold your breath.

 

“You'll talk when you're ready, won't you? Won't you?” 

 

“Poor Cicero. Dear Cicero,” the raspy voice plays in your ear.

 

Huh. What the Fuck.

 

A thud outside. Cicero has fallen to his knees, pleading with the Night Mother. He desperately believes he's failing his role as the Keeper, all because this corpse is silent.

 

“You, who shares my iron tomb, who warms my ancient bones…”

 

But maybe you've gone mad, too, because the voice in your head belongs to the Night Mother, laying upright in front of you, lifeless, but not dead. She speaks hypnotically, and you're inclined to listen.

 

A name. And a location. Yet another job to do, you grimace. Ever since you joined this cruddy assassin's club it's been nothing but errands, nothing but overly serious people ordering you around. When will it be your turn to call the shots? When can _you_ liven up this routine? Night Mother be damned, you just wanna do something interesting. She snaps you out of your thoughts, “Tell Cicero the time has come. Tell him the words he has been waiting for, all these years: ‘Darkness rises when silence dies.’”

 

The phrase strikes a chord with you. “Darkness rises,” you mumble, “when silence dies.”

 

“M-Mother? Was that… you?”

 

You fidget. This isn’t good.

 

“I… I heard it. Cicero really heard it this time. Has Mother finally spoken? The role of listener… could it be-”

 

The doors swing open, immediately sending you to the ground between the Night Mother and Cicero, who glares at you in surprise and pure, unbridled fury. If Cicero wasn't gonna kill you before, he sure as hell will now. You scramble to your feet, staying low to the ground, the glint in his eye menacing like you've never seen before. You really are afraid.

 

He snarls, an ugly crease forming between his eyebrows. “What treachery! Defiler,” he barks, “debaser and defiler! I knew you had no respect for Mother, but this is… _madness!_ Cretan, _rat!_ Cicero thought-!” He stops, stomps on the ground and yanks his hair, letting out a strained cry.

 

You take this opportunity to creep towards the exit, but his head snaps in your direction, a blade already in hand.

 

“You’ll pay… you’ll pay!”

 

“Cicero, wait-!” You throw your hands up between you and him.

 

“ _Silence!_ ” He steps closer and screams, “Now _die!_ ”

 

“Oh, fuck this,” you draw your weapon and swing at Cicero, who takes the hit straight on. You release the tension in your shoulders, but Cicero shakes it off like nothing, looks to you with a piercing gaze, and lunges forward.

 

Your stance widens and you stiffen your forearm to redirect Cicero’s attack, then grab him by the wrist and pull. The momentum carries him off balance, but he’s quick to retaliate, landing and turning to swipe at your exposed midriff. A good slice is taken out of your enchanted armor, something you’ll have to remind yourself to fix later, but instead of going for your vital organs like you expected him to, Cicero dove knife-first towards your legs. It’s obvious he’s not thinking, just hellbent on attacking you. That means he won’t listen to reason. And that means one of you will die. But that’s not your style. This fight _will_ have a different outcome. If it doesn’t, what will you tell Astrid? The new guy is dead? She’ll lament, congratulate you on not dying, then it’s back to business as usual. You won’t have it.

 

He stabs into your leg before you can react. Falling onto his knees, he grapples your ankle with an animalistic strength and smirks, and he looks at your face, hoping to see your pain. But your lip only twitches, disappointing Cicero, and he twists and digs the knife deeper, ignoring your battering against his back.

 

“Repent, scream, beg…!” Cicero growls. The wound sputters blood and splashes on his face. He pulls out the blade and tries to stab again, but the knife has a much harder time piercing your skin. He strikes again harder and you take the brief second of confusion to hit him with a crackling pop. He lets go and holds his head in agony, and stares at you distraught. A faint blue aura surrounds you. Oakflesh. He didn’t take you for a mage of Restoration.

 

The wound on your leg closes and emits a twinkling yellow light. You exhale, winded from the sudden and large use of magicka. “Look,” you start, “I talked to your mother in there.”

 

His face crinkles again, offended at your casual tone regarding her and - not to mention - while fighting for your life. The wild energy in him cools down slightly, but that doesn’t mean he’s not still pissed the hell off.

 

“She wanted me to tell you something, fuck, what was it?”

 

As you recall the voice in your head a minute or so ago, Cicero quietly reaches into a pocket, and pulls out a poison, and pours it onto his knife behind his back. The sinister idea cooking in his head amuses him, and he can’t fight a smile.

 

“Hey, Cicero, do the words ‘darkness rises’ mean anything to you?”

 

A pause. They do, to Cicero. The words mean a great, great deal to him. But it’s a trick. You heard him talking about wanting to hear the Night Mother speak, wanting to finally find the Listener, and here you are, giving him exactly what he wants. It can’t be that simple. The whole phrase isn’t even there. It must be a coincidence, the random, pleading words of a fool about to die.

 

“Really, now? Mother said that?” He approaches slowly, dagger twitching in his hand.

 

You nod, still trying to remember the rest of the phrase. “She called me the Listener.”

 

That word, forsaken on your tongue. He pines for it, and to tell him that you were the Listener? Stupid, rotten. He takes another step forward. “How interesting. Tell me more of what Mother said.”

 

He doesn’t want to fight anymore, it appears, but you’re not so naive. You approach Cicero as well.

 

“She mentioned a job. A Black Sacrament.”

 

“As she is foretold to do.”

 

“A place called Volunruud, and a man, Amaund Motierre.”

 

The two of you are face to face now. His eyes flicker around, trying to read you, while yours stay fixed on him, so sure and strong. He can’t wait to kill you.

 

“Is that all, _Listener?_ ”

 

“She mentioned you.”

 

He froze. Would she really?

 

You strike him with your weapon and spin behind him to knock the dagger onto the floor. He hisses in pain and tries to retrieve it, but you kick it to the wall and mumble, “Just don’t move.”

 

“Hideous bastard,” he spits out.

 

“Will you listen? You might like what I have to say.”

 

“Whatever it is, you’re lying,” Cicero says, “The Night Mother would never choose a traitorous and unfaithful Listener like you.”

 

You nod to your weapon. “But a capable Listener, she could.”

 

“I’m going to mangle you. I’m going to chop off every limb from your body and scatter your belongings in the ocean, and send you straight to the Voi-”

 

“Darkness rises when silence dies.”

 

And there they are. The binding words, meant only for Cicero. It sent chills down his spine to hear them spoken. To beg for them, to kill for them. But he did not celebrate. Even if you are the Listener, your allegiance does not lie with Sithis, and therefore not with Cicero. He hates to compromise the Night Mother’s choice, but he will never fight on your side. The duties of a Keeper are enough for him.

 

“Get out of her chamber,” he says, voice dripping in venom.

 

You keep him in sight as you sidestep to the door, and leave to report to Astrid. Cicero picks up the knife and sheaths it. He closes the Night Mother’s casket, notices the lock’s been ruined, and curses under his breath.

 

It’s a new beginning.


End file.
